Thursday, January 12, 2017

On the San Diego Chargers Becoming the L.A. Chargers

On October 27, 1991, two weeks before my tenth birthday, I
became a San Diego Chargers fan. It’s one of those childhood memories that is
vivid but also patchy, as if I dreamt it last night and have to reconstruct
some of the connective narrative to make it make sense. It’s also a story I’ve reluctantly
had to tell to anyone who has ever asked me “why are you a Chargers fan?” to
defend my decision not to support the Seahawks (the local team) or a more
national team that was popular in the 90s, like the Cowboys, 49ers, or Packers.

The day before I
became a Chargers fan, I made my first start at middle linebacker in Grid Kids
(peewee football) after our best defensive player broke his arm the previous
game. There is only one play I remember, but it may be my most vivid
pre-puberty memory. I saw a hole open in the offensive line before I ran
headfirst into it as fast as I could, not even seeing the running back I hit
before I heard a POP and fell on top of him. The crowd audibly gasped and
waited for us both to get up before cheering. And I remember after the game my
dad was so proud (neither my dad nor I remember if I actually had a good game
outside of that one hit) that he told me we were going to go to Seattle to go
to a Seahawks game the next day, just the two of us.

The game in Seattle is fuzzy, and I only recall a few things
related to childhood anxiety. The steps of the Kingdome were steep and I didn’t
want to fall down them (we had shitty seats). You had to pee in a trough in
front of everyone instead of your own separate urinal stall. Drunk fans were
yelling at each other and threatening to fight. But I couldn’t let my dad know
that I was out of my comfort zone. After all, I was a linebacker now, and I
wasn’t afraid of throwing my body at other kids who were older and bigger than
me, so why should I be afraid of peeing in a trough? So I turned my anxiety
into playful antagonism (as kids are apt to do) and started rooting against the
Seahawks to irk my dad and the fans around us.

If a second year superstar named Junior Seau hadn’t worn the
same number as my dad and I, I might not have remembered that game at all, and
I definitely wouldn’t be writing about the Chargers today. It was one of those
coincidences that hit at the right moment to make a lasting impression. Junior
was a great player, and I identified with him because he wore 55 and had the
same neck roll. My dad took the opportunity to bribe me into playing better,
saying something to the effect of “if you play like him, then I don’t care that
you’re a Chargers fan.” Until I looked up the date of the game today for this
post, I thought the Chargers won (they lost 20-9). I guess it didn’t matter. We
ended up going to every Chargers game in Seattle together until 2006.

Rooting for a team can be as complicated as my story about
the Chargers or as simple as “I like their logo.” It’s irrational. But my
relationship with the Chargers is more than just an admiration for the big men running
around in the homoerotic uniform. It’s a convoluted mix of nostalgia and male
bonding, an attachment baked and hardened in hours of free time spent in frivolous
but rewarding pursuits. I subscribed to Sports Illustrated so I could cut out
every photo of a Chargers player and make a scrapbook. I recorded every Chargers
game on VHS that was televised in Washington (did you know TNT used to have
Sunday night football?!) and stat tracked every game live on the internet when
stat tracking became a thing. If it wasn’t for the Chargers, I’m not sure I
would’ve convinced my younger brother to apply to UCSD, where he ended up going
and where he lives now. I’m sure it’s because I subconsciously felt compelled
to share the Chargers and San Diego with my brother (who doesn’t like football)
the way my dad shared football with me. Football, the Chargers, San Diego, and
family have stewed together in a strange elixir that became part of my
character. You can say sports don’t matter, but it’s hard for an adult to
extract something that’s part of his or her identity and not be hurt.

It’s no wonder, then, that following the Chargers has taught
me a lot about adulthood and the harsh realities of the world. They made the
Super Bowl in the 1994 season behind Junior’s Defensive Player of the Year
season, only to get crushed in the Super Bowl (a game that I still have not
seen the second half of). They lost 15 games in a row behind the putrid play of
Ryan Leaf. They had the best team in the league in 2006 and lost in the
playoffs when Marlon McCree fumbled a game sealing interception. But that’s
just on the field pain. Every fan has stories like that. The Chargers taught me
more about disappointment than that. They exposed me to corruption, incompetence,
and tragedy. They had a team doctor that was handing out pain pills like porn
fliers in Vegas, feeding the addictions of players I grew up with. Incidentally,
he’s now blacklisted by the NFL and runs a very popular sports medicine Twitter
account. Archie Manning refused to let his son play for the Chargers because
their ownership was so clueless, making the Chargers (and their fans) the
biggest punchline in the NFL. And that all-pro linebacker whom I was supposed
to play like? He ended up shooting himself in the chest with a shotgun after
exhibiting symptoms of CTE for years.

The stadium saga and today’s announcement that the team is
going to move to LA was a civics lesson in how rich men try to fleece
governments. I’ve seen the drama unfold over almost two decades, with countless
stadium plans, city hall meetings, and arguing lawyers. It was shitshow of spin
and inept plans. It wore on me. I stopped buying Chargers merchandise. I quit
going to games. I unfollowed every Chargers reporter on Twitter. People asked
me why I cared, it shouldn’t matter since I don’t live in San Diego. It matters
because a team becomes linked with its community. And I empathize with every
San Diegan who feels the same way about the Chargers that I do. The same fans
who messaged each other on every draft day, that were writers and Bolts from
the Blue, that podcasted updates every week. They became part of my “fan elixir”
just as much as LaDainian Tomlinson or Antonio Gates.

Today is especially sad because it is the official end of
the hope I had that Dean Spanos would do the right thing. I thought that there
was still a chance he could forget about the bottom line and stay in a bad
stadium situation for a little while longer. That maybe there was a chance he
could come up with a plan that would keep the Chargers in San Diego, instead of
abandoning thousands of fans like me for whom the Chargers exist as part of
their identity. Instead, they will just become the second tenant to an LA
stadium, existing for tourists and transplants to go see when their actual
favorite team comes to town. Spanos proved he was another mediocre rich man born
into prosperity that America seems to be littered with, who ripped the guts out
of regular people in order to take the team’s value from $800 million to a
billion. So here I sit, reminded once again that unremarkable rich men can get
away with whatever they want. Congratulations, Dean, on adding another comma to
your net worth. Charger fans are only collateral damage.

1 comment:

TheSShH

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